Category: Poetry
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as good as dead
in my dream,i walk down a narrow streetflanked by tall hedgerowsstanding like quiet sentinelsbut i can see the dark windowsof the beige houses,no light, no sound,the acrid air reeking of sulfur.at the end,i reach a black gateunder whichthe slope of the pavementis dyed red,opaque against the concrete,as it seeps down.i…
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love: a comprehension test
choose the most accurate answer. (all may be incorrect.) q1. what is love?a) something i cannot write about.b) a bracelet broken by excess wear.c) a sin i almost forgave myself for.d) none of the above. q2. the correct way to end a poem about love is—a) to text goodbye.b) by…
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my body turned 20
my body turned 20 in october and i started gymming a week after as if sculpting the vessel might make it listen to me. i have always found it lovely that my birthday was in the same month as halloween. the only day everyone welcomes transformation, transfiguration, metamorphosis. it feels…
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another collection, of course: pt.iii
i promise you this is the last of that poetry notebook’s collection of mediocre poems, written from 2021 to 2024. i can’t seem to properly finish either of them—terrible time management—so i’m just dumping it all before i lose them. again, there are no titles and the asterisks separate them.…
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another collection, of course: pt.ii
if you thought the last collection was the final one, think again—my poetry notebook is full of untouched ramblings from 2021 to 2024 that will be finding the light of day now. there are no titles, again, so the asterisks should separate them. * I look up at the night…
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mosaic
i looked at myself in the mirror.i did not see myself.i saw a thief,a mosaicof everyone i have stolen.bits of glass and stonefrom here and there.return them all,and i am laid bare. i wanted to break the mirror.i wanted to break the mosaic.i am nothingbut a mosaicof broken pieces,held togetherby…
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you, the stranger; or, an extension of an older poem for a spoken word contest
you, the stranger in another’s land—belonging nowhere, yet chained by hand.they bury you deep in a woven shroud:don’t think, don’t look, don’t speak too loud.but a single drop of ink,lets you rise, begin to think.and with paper, you fold your wings—the ones they clipped—into a phoenix.you sing a manifesto to…
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another collection, of course: pt.i
instead of ever writing a complete, coherent collection of poems, i have written fragments i vowed i’d finish but never did. this one revolved around the sea which, ironically, i’ve never seen with my own two near-sighted eyes. i hated seeing it gather dust in my google document and i…
malalai khan 